


Golden Egg

by neveralarch



Category: Nero Wolfe - Rex Stout
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 17:33:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17146061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/pseuds/neveralarch
Summary: Archie and Cramer are on a stakeout on Christmas Eve. Good times are had by some.





	Golden Egg

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Persiflager](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide Persiflager! Thanks for a super fun prompt!

I tried to keep up some conversation, at first. But even I can take a hint, especially when it comes in the form of Inspector Cramer snarling at me. As the stakeout entered its fifth hour, I slumped in the passenger's seat and cradled my thermos.

"I'm making sacrifices," I said. "I'm being a willing servant of the law, here. The least you could do is talk civilly about baseball."

"It's not possible to be civil with a Giants fan," said Cramer, which was rich coming from a Yankees minion. I told him so, but he wouldn't be drawn out. He just sat in the bedraggled Nash Rambler he'd driven in lieu of a police car. I had a horrible suspicion that it was Cramer's personal car.

We watched the door of the apartment building. No one came running out, holding a bloody knife. Cramer chewed on his cigar a little. He'd started to light it, earlier, but had been persuaded to desist on account of my sensitive nose and weak constitution. "Sacrifices," he muttered. "What kind of sacrifices could you possibly be making?"

"It's Christmas Eve," I reminded Cramer. "If you would just trust my information and arrest Sach, we wouldn't have to keep following him around. I could be at the gathering to which I was graciously invited by Lily Rowan, or—"

Cramer snorted. "Oh, I see. Lily's got a party."

"Miss Rowan has a small gathering," I corrected him.

"I have a wife," said Cramer. "And a son, and a _granddaughter_. And I'm spending Christmas Eve in a car with a bozo, because you couldn't bring me that gun when you had the chance. You just had to be a clever— _What_ are you doing?"

I untwisted from where I'd been trying to see under my own seat. "Trying to find the bozo. I think you must be mistaken. It's just you and me in this old car, buddy."

"Don't call me buddy," said Cramer.

"I will refrain from the name-calling if you will," I informed him.

Cramer refrained from saying anything at all. I sat back and watched the snow slowly blanket the apartment building we were hoping Mike Sach would eventually come out of.

"Why didn't you put Purley on this?" I asked. "We would've had a great time sniping at each other. Maybe eventually he would've decided to arrest me, and I could've sat in a nice warm cell instead of this freezing car."

"Purley had plans," said Cramer. "I'm not making my guys work on Christmas Eve unless they want to."

Saul was on the other side of the building, watching the back exit with some dick named Abramowitz. Saul hadn't made any complaints about holiday work, when Wolfe asked if he could contribute to this jolly joint venture. Hanukkah had wrapped up a few days earlier, and Saul only enjoyed Christmas for the blinking lights and the eggnog. He had a thermos full of eggnog in his car and a nice bright traffic light to watch, so he was all set.

I used my sharp wit to deduce that Abramowitz didn't care much about Christmas either, except maybe for that sweet holiday overtime pay.

"You could've stayed home," I suggested. "Leave Saul and I to suffer."

"I don't trust you," explained Cramer. "And Saul would tell me he was a sixteen-foot bird from Antarctica if Wolfe asked him to."

"It must be very hard, being so suspicious." I patted Cramer on the shoulder, and snatched my hand back before he could bite. 

At least there was one thing I wasn't missing tonight. I took out the brown paper bag Fritz had pressed into my hands this afternoon, and unwrapped my sandwich. It was a masterpiece. Thin slices of steamed, then roasted goose, topped with a piece of the crackling browned skin. Arugula and fennel to add some vitamins, and a spread of mashed sweet potatoes and maple syrup, all pressed between two thick slices of home-baked bread.

I took a small bite.

"What is that?" asked Cramer.

"Defwiwah," I told him, eloquently.

"Is that turkey?" asked Cramer.

I swallowed. "Goose," I said, and then told him the rest of it.

Cramer looked at me like a man might look at a cockroach who happened to be eating truffle pate.

"What did your wife pack you?" I asked.

"My wife was making Christmas dinner." Cramer pulled a little paper sack from under his seat. "I made a peanut butter sandwich."

I looked at the bag. I looked at Cramer. I looked out at the cold snowy night, where Cramer had trapped us just because he couldn't trust a stand-up guy like me who had only lied to him about fifty-three times since we'd made our acquaintance a dozen years ago.

I handed him the second sandwich from the bottom of my sack.

"Merry Christmas, Inspector."

Cramer gave me the warmest smile I'd ever see on heaven or earth. "Merry Christmas, Archie."

He only got three bites in before we heard the gunshot, but my mother always told me that it's the thought that counts.


End file.
